Life on Mars?
by GreenMaureen
Summary: "It's a God-awful small affair to the girl with the mousy hair..." Ivy tries to forget her own tragedy, but is forced to face it instead. {Inspired by the eponymous song by David Bowie; can be read as a songfic or as its own entity.}


Sheets of rain assailed the dark streets of Gotham. All Ivy could see were charcoal smudges that were buildings silhouetted against the chartreuse sky, and garish red neon signs that blinded her in their glow.

She had no umbrella, only a sweatshirt that did nothing to shelter her from the icy deluge. She didn't care at all. She had tunnel vision, walking stiffly as if in a dream. Maybe this was only a nightmare after all. Fists clenched and teeth set, she walked forwards and forwards. If anyone were to look at her face, they might mistake the raindrops that slid down her cheeks for tears. They would be wrong, so wrong. The rain was just rain.

A cherry-red marquee rose in front of her, so daringly bright that it eclipsed the weak streetlights and flashes from passing cars. She ducked under it, welcoming the shelter from the storm. She clawed at the plate-glass doors until her fingers found the handle. The door resisted her pull, but only for so long. She slammed it behind her and stood in the lobby, lost.

_Snap. _"Waiting for someone?" asked the gum-chewing ticket boy behind the counter. What a pointless question. Yes, of course she was. She shook her head no.

The boy tilted his head, staring quizzically at the strange girl who seemed not to notice that her sodden, sullen red hair was dripping on the carpet, that it was in need of a re-dyeing to cover its mousy brown roots, that her currant-colored lipstick was smeared outside its boundaries, that her sallow skin was devoid of living color; that she was still standing shaking her head.

_Snap. "_One for the matinee?"

Ivy stopped shaking her head, raised her chin, lowered it.

"Seven-fifty." _Snap._

Her fingers fumbled mechanically in her jeans pocket, closing on a ten-dollar bill. She presented it to the ticket boy, concentrating very hard to keep her hand from trembling. Her lower lip started trembling instead; she bit it and tasted blood.

The boy paid no mind. His fingers flew over the buttons on the cash register, tucking away her bill and plucking out two singles and two coins and one printed receipt. "Thanks, enjoy your movie." _Snap._

Ivy contorted her face into something that might have resembled a smile in better circumstances. Clutching the ticket and her change, she half-walked-half ran to the theatre door.

The rows of seats were empty; Not surprising at all for a Tuesday afternoon. Ivy slipped down a row close to the front, and took the center seat. The previews were playing. Computer-generated characters danced across the screen to tinny music. Ivy covered her ears. She couldn't take the happiness; she had to block it out.

Finally, the opening fanfare. She sat back, elbows comfortably resting on the armrests. The lights and sounds washed over her; the characters pulled her in. Here was where the heroes and villains bantered like old married couples supposedly did, though she wouldn't know about that. Here everything was black or white, and they good guys always survived at least long enough to finish their story. If they died, they died for a good cause.

She sunk into the film, forgetting her own life. She wasn't Ivy, or Pamela Isley; she was the leather-jacketed good-hearted all-American outlaw, punching out baddies and dishing out snark. She broke arms, detonated explosives, shared kisses with the bubbly blonde love interest. They were the quintessential battle couple, kicking ass and taking names. They stole their moments of private happiness together; they were each other's secret, only weakness.

Battles, strung together, became a war. There was no military here; the fighters were the happy rebels who rose up against the self-righteous forces of order and oppression. The battle couple was a force of nature; they were invincible, because their love made them that way.

Until it didn't.

Until the baddies surprised them, until the all-American outlaw missed every sign that should have made it obvious they were walking into a trap. Until the bubbly blonde love interest crumpled, her blue eyes rolling back into her head; until her life spilled out through a hole in her chest.

On the silver screen, the all-American outlaw choked out a sob of grief and disbelief.

In the theatre, Ivy forced her eyes shut. This couldn't be happening. She would open her eyes and everything would be peachy.

She did. It wasn't. She saw that her right hand was poised on the armrest, palm up, empty; it would never be filled again, she knew.

She lifted her eyes to the screen again. The outlaw didn't know. What a fool.

"She's dead." Her voice was weak, raspy. It barely carried the length of the row, much less all the way to the screen. She coughed, tried again.

"She's dead, you idiot. She's gone. She's fucking _dead. _Stop crying. Stop fucking _crying!_ Crying won't help! It won't bring her back!"

She got to her feet. She was crying. Selfish. "You're not crying because she's _dead, _you fool, and you know it! You're crying because _you _know you'll never see her again! You, who weren't worth a tenth of her!"

Her words were powerless. She knew she was worthless. She scrubbed at her eyes, willing the tears away. Tears couldn't fix anything. Nothing could bring back a lost love.

"You care so much for her _now_, huh? Why not back then? Why didn't you sacrifice yourself to give her a chance to live?"

The credits were rolling. There was no one to hear her. The lights flashed on, and she ran; she ran out of the aisle and through the lobby, past the gum-snapping ticket boy, who didn't care to call after her, through the plexiglass doors, out into the dark.

There was nothing waiting for her there. She kept running, anyway.


End file.
